


Deal with a Devil

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Slavery, Torture, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Centuries ago a bargain was struck. In exchange for the safety of humans under his protection, Raphael will submit to one year in Hell as Abaddon's pet each century. The souls of the damned are plentiful, but the demon enjoys the novelty of the willing submission of a being who would otherwise be beyond his reach. Another century has come and gone, and Abaddon comes to collect on the angel's debt.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Darkfics Super-Duper Mega Collection





	Deal with a Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Wing whump, any fandom goes. I wanna see broken bones, plucked feathers, and dislocations. Maybe even completely remove the feathery things. Just go wild, and make it horrifying.

An anguished cry sounds as fingers brush against the open bottle of whiskey on the table, failing to grasp it and instead sending it toppling over, spilling its paltry remains across the cheap plywood. There couldn’t have been more than a few shots left and from the looks of it, the figure slumped in his chair oughtn’t continue to indulge, anyway. And yet the sound is as if someone is readying to tear his heart from his chest.

The apartment reeks of liquor.

Hazy, blue eyes shift to the clock. If he has enough presence of mind to check the time, clearly he’s not yet had enough. He pushes himself up, stumbling over the handful of boxes he’d never bothered to unpack, which house most of his meager possessions. Raphael barely makes it to the kitchenette. When he does, he drops to his knees to rummage around the cabinet below the sink. Surely… Surely there must be _something_ else there.

There isn’t.

It’s just as well. The clock strikes midnight, and the apartment door swings open. He doesn’t look to see who has intruded in his home—he already knows.

“Raphael,” that slick, oily voice greets with mocking cheer.

He pauses for a moment, lip curling in disdain at the sight of the glorified shoebox the angel calls home, never unpacked. A place to exist more than to live. Not that he cares—it’s no skin off his back if his prey chooses to live in squalor. He kicks a box out of his way, green eyes alight with malicious mirth as he looms over the other man. “My, how the time does fly, hm?”

He crouches, gripping the drunkard’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. A collar dangles loosely from his free hand.

“Please,” comes the pained whisper.

“Oh, come now. Don’t be liked that,” Abaddon pouts. “I think our terms are quite generous. Ninety nine years you’ve had. And now you owe just one with me. But, I suppose we could end our contract, if you’d like. Unconditional freedom. Is that what you’d like?”

Raphael doesn’t answer.

“But of course, you know what happens, then. I’ll kill them. Every human upon whom you’ve laid a healing hand. But the choice is yours. Freedom from me for you? Or for your flock?” He takes hold of the angel’s hand and drapes the collar over it.

It’s the same choice he gives each century, and each time the response is the same. The angel takes the collar and fastens it around his neck. He will submit to spare the humanity from the archdemon’s wrath. Uncoordinated fingers fumble with the clasp, but eventually the leather rests snug around his throat.

A large hand pats his cheek. “There’s a good boy. Now up.”

The blond gets to his feet first and watches.

It takes a moment, but Raphael grabs at the edge of the counter, clumsily trying to pick himself up off the floor. It amuses for a moment, but Abaddon quickly grows tired of it. He grabs the scruff of the man’s shirt and hauls him easily to his feet. Both standing, the difference in stature becomes more apparent. Raphael is small, a little over a foot shorter than the demon’s height of near six and a half feet tall.

He’s always hated feeling so small. In the scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. The demon’s infernal powers are stronger than his own divine gifts, rendering size irrelevant. But perhaps if they were at least more evenly matched there, he might not _feel_ so utterly powerless.

Abaddon wrinkles his nose over the strench of alcohol. “It’s a wonder you still bother.”

The scene around them shifts. The little studio apartment is gone, replaced by rocky cliffs that overlook lakes of fire and blood. The scent of sulfur hangs heavy in the air. Hell is a barren and oppressive wasteland with nothing to break the silence save the screams of the damned. The sheer weight of it drives Raphael to his knees. He presses his palms against the hot stone, gasping and panting.

Suffering souls call to him and he feels his healing gifts—gifts he will need for himself in short order—draining almost of their own accord. The cacophony overwhelms his senses and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying in vain to ward off the agonized prayers. The angel retches.

Abaddon makes a show of rolling his eyes and heaves a loud, exasperated breath. “It’s exactly the same every time, pet. No need for dramatics.” He picks the angel up off the ground, a firm grip on his shoulders keeping Raphael on his feet. “Now, come along.”

Breathless and shaking, Raphael sobers quickly. He should have known better than to try to drink away the looming torment. It’s a power play—Abaddon could have brought them directly to his chambers, but it’s so much more delicious to drop into the middle of hell and watch the horror and despair carved into the very being of his captive as he takes in the sights and sounds he’s not seen for nearly a century.

It reminds him why he holds to this bargain. There is no shortage of victims to satisfy his appetite—the souls of the wicked and the unwilling abound. And yet Raphael is neither of those things. He has his vices, certainly—love of the drink chief among them. And yet he is pure and good enough to have risen to Heaven’s ranks at the end of his mortal life and has devoted his life to healing as many of the sick and afflicted as he has strength to save. His suffering is unearned, and he submits to it so beautifully.

He must. Else the deal is broken and Abaddon will no longer stay his hand against the mortals his pet holds so dear.

His own step is jovial and light, a stark contrast to the angel who walks as a man headed to the gallows. Except what awaits him is so, very much worse than that. “I’ve missed you.” He presses a kiss to the angel’s temple as they walk in a cruel pantomime of affection.

The Hell that is accessible to the masses may be devoid of comfort, but the dwellings of its princes are opulent as an earthly palace, befitting of their station. Most of the time, Raphael is confined to his captor’s bedroom, a richly furnished room cloaked in crimson and gold. At the center stands a lavish bed, the sight of which makes the angel sick to his stomach.

The door shuts and the cacophony of prayers fades, settling into background noise. Abaddon watches the crease of the angel’s brow and the way his back stiffens as he becomes aware that he will no longer be distracted by the pain of others. Here, he must contemplate his own fate. The demon releases the angel from his grasp and takes a step back, drinking in the sight of him. “You know the rules, pet.”

His eyes are on the floor.

Without a word, Raphael takes off first his shoes and socks. And then with trembling hands, he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, dropping it on the floor beside him. He hesitates just a moment as his hands move to the waistband of of his pants. But only a moment, and then he shoves them down and sheds his underpants, standing fully nude save the collar about his neck. It’s nothing Abaddon hasn’t seen many times before, and yet he still manages to look so ashamed.

The tightness of his jaw and the curl of his fingers, hands just itching to cover himself, sends a shiver of delight down the demon’s spine.

“There’s a good pet. Now, let’s have a proper look at you, hm?”

First, he circles the angel, predatory eyes taking in every detail, every twitch of his muscles and each irregularity in his breathing. He observes, but doesn’t touch. Not at first. He allows the anticipation to build. He can see it—Raphael wants so badly to squirm away from his gaze, or at least to cover as much of his body as he can. But he knows better and forces himself to remain still, hands had his sides. The struggle—the urge to protect himself weighed against the knowledge of what will become of his mortals if he does so—is incredible watch.

Only when he thinks Raphael can barely stand to remain still a moment longer does he draw closer. A hand lights on the angel’s shoulder, trailing down his back. “Beautiful.” Pale skin his flawless. It always is—the marvel of a being with an endless capacity to heal. For centuries, they’ve played their game. And yet while the wounds linger for awhile and the angel will suffer, in time, scars vanish and missing limbs return. All is as it was, and he is once again a fresh canvas upon which Abaddon may carve his ownership again and again and again.

He continues to circle, tracing a hand over the captive’s chest. He moves higher, fingers lingering over the collar that looks so perfectly at home on his neck. His touch is painfully gentle as those same fingers move beneath the angel’s chin, encouraging him to bring his eyes upward. The pad of his thumb brushes over his lips.

Raphael swallows thickly. He is frightened—Abaddon can tell by the way he breathes—and there are already tears in his eyes. He won’t let them fall yet. He’ll make an effort to be brave, just as he always does. But that makes the weeping just that much sweeter when it begins in earnest. Fingers run through thick, black curls, pushing them away from his brow.

“Mine.”

It seems an eternity that the demon’s hands are on him, touching and probing wherever they please. They take the measure of him, assessing his responses and crafting a map of all the best ways to bring him harm. He remains as still as he can, aware that every twitch and wince, or even just the catch of his breath adds just one more weapon to his captor’s arsenal.

“Show me your wings.”

He closes his eyes and heaves a shuddering breath. They manifest behind him, massive and as perfectly white as freshly fallen snow. It becomes harder to remain in place as the demon takes hold of one and tugs just a little. Those hands—still deceptively gentle and light in their touch—reacquaint themselves with the appendages, stroking feathers and mapping out musculature and bone structure. Finally, he can stand it no more, and he gives them a pump, trying to discourage continued touching.

“Oh, hush now. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Yet.

Still, he releases Raphael from his grip. If the angel didn’t know him so well, he might think he’s won some small victory. He hasn’t, and they both know it.

The demon retreats and settles himself on a velvet sofa. “Come here.”

Shoulders hunched and steps slow, Raphael obeyes. Without needing to be told, he kneels at the demon’s feet, his back to his captor.

“There’s a good pet.”

A mirror on the opposite wall reflects their images, and the angel drops his gaze, trying not to see, but Abaddon tuts. “You know better than that.”

Painfully, he lifts his eyes from the floor. He always tries to look away, and every time the command is the same. He must watch. A long time ago, he may have resisted. He knows better now. Raphael will suffer no matter what he does, but submission will ease the pain. And it keeps the demon’s malice focused on him, where it belongs. As long as he obeys, Abaddon will not seek out another to punish in his stead.

The demon pats his knee and he drapes his wings across his lap.

His throat constricts and his lip quivers as his captor begins to pluck his feathers. He chats as he works. He has a particularly long one in his fingers, holding it up and examining it. “I’m always surprised by how soft they are.” He tests the shaft of the feather, musing, “They make fine quils, you know.” He sets it aside, fingers rooting around until he pulls a much smaller one, almost like a puff of down. “But these are my favorite.” He lets it drift to the floor to land beside the angel. “Your arrival was impeccably timed,” he continues, as if he’d had any say in the matter at all. “I’ve been meaning to restuff my pillows.”

Raphael dares to close his eyes as bald spots appear and the pile around him grows, but the clearing of the demon’s throat is enough to force them open again.

Tears begin to fall.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “Shh. This is only the beginning, pet.”

The process drags on for hours. Raphael’s knees ache from kneeling and his face burns with the humilition of watching feather after feather fall to the floor, revealing ever more of the blood-flecked flesh of his wings, but the crying has stopped. Already, he is exhausted and spent. Every last feather has been plucked, one by one by painful one, and he has been unable to do anything but kneel and allow it to happen, eyes fixed on the mirror. He watches as the final one floats down to join the others on the floor.

Abaddon cards a hand through his hair as if he’s a favored dog. The angel shies away from his touch, and his free hand grips the collar, holding him in place. For now, he’ll allow a little squirming. For now, anyway. His hand trails down the back of Raphael’s neck and over his shoulder, coming to caress a featherless wing. “It’s alright,” he coos as the angel winces. “You won’t have to look at them much longer.”

His fingers dig into flesh, proping at the joint between the appendage and his back.

“Please.”

“How many times have we done this, pet,” he asks patiently.

Too many. More than Raphael cares to count. The first day in Hell is always this way, and it repeats over the course of the year as he heals. And yet every time, he begs.

“But would you like a break?”

It’s a trap. Raphael knows it, but he doesn’t have the energy for games, so he nods.

“You’ll have to ask nicely.”

Raphael sighs. “Please. I would like a break, please.” He can no longer stand the weight of his captor’s hands. And yet the grip on his collar remains, prompting him to repeat a broken, “Please.”

“Stay.”

He remains on his knees as Abaddon gets up. He doesn’t move even when the demon leaves the room. There is no point—even had he a mind to run, where would he go? But in Abbadon’s absence, he can at least take his eyes off the mirror and wrap his arms around himself. There are no prying eyes to shield himself from, and yet he craves that small protection. However, the sound of footsteps returning calls his hands to his side and lifts his gaze.

A broom clatters to the floor beside him, followed by a sack. He’s gathered other tools as well, but Raphael makes a point not to look at them.

“Sweep them up. I’ll not lay a hand on you until you’ve finished.”

He settles himself back onto the couch with a catlike grin to watch. Painfully, his angel gets to his feet and picks up the broom. He does so without speaking, and Abaddon lifts his chin, a dangerous glint in his green eyes.

“Mind your manners, pet.”

His angel stops. He closes his eyes and heaves a sigh before turning to face the demon. “Thank you.”

Abaddon gestures for him to continue. His movements are stiff and slow—it hurts to see parts of himself gathered into a bag, no different than trash. Or stuffing for pillows, or whatever other use the demon may find for them. And yet, it is a welcome reprieve. He tries to forget the set of eyes watching him but nothing he can do will ease the shame of willing submission.

“It would have been such a waste to see them ruined with blood.”

Raphael says nothing. Aside from his captor’s voice, the only sound is the broom as he drags it across the bedroom floor.

The task completed, his captor snaps his fingers and points to the floor. “Lay down.”

He sinks back to his knees, but he doesn’t lay down. Instead he tries one, final time, “Please.”

Abaddon stands. “Very well.” He takes a step and crouches before his pet. “If that’s what you want.” He cups the angels cheek and says, “You are free to change your mind whenever you like. But, if you want your mortal pets safe, you will do as I say and lay down.”

It comes as no surprise to either of them that Raphael gives in. He lowers himself to the ground to lay on his stomach.

He flinches at the sensation of a hand on his back, stroking down the length of his spine. “That’s right. You want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?” He digs a knee into the angel’s back to pin him in place, as he takes hold of his right wing. Again, his fingers find the joint, drawing a miserable sob from the man on the floor.

He twists.

Raphael screams and there’s a sickening sound of a joint forced out of place.

Abaddon pulls a knife from his belt and applies more pressure with his knee as the angel thrashes beneath him. He cuts through flesh and separates the appendage from his captive, pushing it carelessly to the side.

“Please!”

“Hush,” he cooes as he conjures a flame. “Halfway there, now.” He heats the blade. The stench of burning flesh fills the air as he lays it where the wing had once been to seal the wound. The pleas that follow are barely coherent as the procedure repeats—first the tug on the joint, and then the removal of the left wing. Another clean separation. He pauses, once it’s finished, to admire his work.

And then he leans forward and pets the angel’s hair. “Shhh. Shhh. Rest for a moment.” He savors the miserable, pained sounds from the prone man and delights in the way his captive loathes his touch but cannot escape. “I want you to remember, though. You chose this, pet. Say the word, and you can leave whenever you’d like.”

He can’t. He won’t. And they both know it. He will not allow the suffering that should be his to be visited upon humanity.

Abaddon keeps him pinned to the floor, stroking and shushing him until he calms, too exhausted to continue to weep. Then, he leans further still, lips tickling the angel’s ear. “You chose this. Say it.”

Raphael doesn’t.

“If you’d like to keep your tongue, you’ll do as I say, pet. Now. _Say it_.” The command has been issued twice, and there will be no third chance.

“I chose this,” he pants.

“Again.”

“I chose this.”

“That you did. And I gave you that choice. I could’ve killed them all, anyway. And taken you all the same. I’ve been awfully generous, have I not?” His knee presses harder still into the angel’s back. “What do you think you should say for that, pet?”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t hesitate or try to resist. He can’t. Because Abaddon is right—Raphael is weak, and the demon could very easily do as he pleases and still hold him captive. The only leverage the angel has is the pleasure his torturer takes in his willing submission. The second he ceases to give himself over willingly to whatever he must endure he is no longer able to protect anyone.

Satisfied, he removes his knee. Raphael makes no move to get up. Abaddon stands. “When I return, you are to be kneeling by the wall.”

He doesn’t spare another glance to his pet as he leaves the room again. But, he hears the pitiful sounds of the angel trying to obey, painfully dragging himself across the floor.

Delightful.

The angel knows where he’s meant to go. A metal ring hands on the wall just to the left of the bed, and that’s where Abaddon finds him, carrying a piece of pronged metal and a length of rope. He doesn’t need to say a word, he simply holds out his hand, and the angel offers up his wrists to be bound. Something like relief crosses his features—if nothing else, he knows being tied to the ring means his captor has finished with him for now.

The end is in sight. For now.

He ties the rope tightly and raises Raphael’s arms above his head. He gives a tug, forcing the angel up until his knees are at a right angle and his body is taut, and then he loops the end of the rope through the ring to tie his captive in place. Then he crouches and grips his chin and tilts his head back, fixing the pronged iron to the collar, two points resting below the angel’s chin and the others against his breastbone. “You’ll not sleep tonight,” he says conversationally, brushing stray curls away from the man’s brow. “You heal so fast when you’re rested, and tomorrow I think I’d like to leave marks that will linger awhile. It’s been too long since I’ve had such a pristine canvas to work with.”

His hands move lower, fingers brushing against Raphael’s nipples. And then lower still, drawing a sharp breath from the angel as he squeezes his balls. “Unless,” he purrs, “you can think of another way to amuse me.” He releases him, sliding fingers between his legs. “You’ve been such a good boy, I’ll allow you to choose.”

Abaddon stands, giving his pet a pat on the cheek. “You’ll have the whole night to think.”

He retires to his bed then, leaving Raphael bound, knees sore, joints aching, and unable to succumb to the blackness that would lay claim to him.


End file.
